Of London And Love
by Meowbowwow
Summary: Fluff And Love Making. This is how I think John and Sherlock would make love after he returns. Body Worship/Poetry/Smut/Fluff


And the words will wash over us,  
leaving behind nothing but smudged calendars.  
Days I wanted to end so soon  
would be floating in a pond of a dying man's garden,  
winter's sorrow would be summer's eyes

And the rains might just smile till they weep,  
I would be a different bird, a new cage,  
rusted but mine, my soul would flake off,  
my bones would dry,  
but I would be happy

_Break down the words into sighs and leave them out for me to wake up to, for today I don't need love but reassurance. Today, I don't love, today I can't lie. Maybe some other day, but not today. Wrap me in lukewarm promises which I know would never be kept. Leave a knot of feathers in my hair and I shall believe that I'm growing wings. Today, love me not for my flight but for how I fall and lick my wounds. Today, I don't need love but reassurance._ John's silence washed over Sherlock as he nodded, understanding.

It seemed as if all the seasons had broken out together in a glorious choir, London ached and groaned under the rains lashing the pavements and dribbling off windows like a lover's chaste vows, the sun seemed like a forgetful and forlorn touch on the sky, disappearing in the background of shivering clouds. Today, Sherlock was London personified, withering and groaning, shaking and sighing, breathing like the chimneys of country cottages, trapped in the balmy embrace of John.

It seemed almost filthy to be making love to Sherlock with the daylight sweeping over them in waves, the curtains were half closed and the sunlight hit Sherlock's chest every now and then and John would rest his lips there and sigh, he would drink in the warmth and rub it against the skin. Every time the sky roared into wakefulness, John let his hands roam around his lover's sides, palms and fingers splayed to cover everything, to touch and feel every little pore on Sherlock's pale skin, it seemed almost urgent that he touch every bit and yet, it wasn't frantic; it was slow, achingly so..

The beads of sweat that rolled off Sherlock's chin and onto his neck were caught by the tip of John's tongue as he tasted the delicate angles of his neck and heard the most delicious of sounds, Sherlock's rumble was a wisp of John's consciousness, the very sound reverberated in his own chest. They were the very centre of a periwinkle flower and their scents ghosted over each other.

"I love you. Oh god, I love you," John murmured and his words became conversations in the silence of the room, making themselves home in between Sherlock's hands clasped and tied over his head, in the beads clinging on to his stomach as he lay straddled and writhing in exquisite pleasure between John's thighs. John kissed his lips and let his tongue dip in the philtrum as he sucked his top lip unhurriedly, drawing it out with Sherlock making sounds of pleasure in his mouth that were slowly pulling John's seams apart.

"You look golden in the morning sun, I could write pages and pages just on the way your mouth opens to utter that deep-throated moan and whimpers the next second, a symphony of sounds no one shall ever hear. No one but me," John buried his head in Sherlock's neck and exhaled audibly, his sighs travelling down Sherlock's spine and pooling deep in his belly as he dragged his throbbing erection against John's.

John held his skin between his teeth and continued simmering himself in the wonderful scent of Sherlock, his sweat and the rains, his moans and the sun, his warmth and the sound of traffic. "Mine," he murmured as he sucked on Sherlock's neck. "Mine." He travelled down as took Sherlock's nipple in his mouth and wriggled his tongue around the puckered flesh. "Mine." He sucked hard on the nub and twisted the other between his fingers, gentle and even, loving and tormenting. Sherlock squirmed under him and drew a ragged breath, even his sighs were framed around a single word, "John."

John looked up and saw the grey eyes, flecked golden on some days and midnight black on others, a storm of emotions on lazy mornings and peaceful dusks on chilly evenings, the colours of London and its crimes, the taste of London and its violation. Sherlock's chest was dotted with soft hairs that shimmered brown as a path of sunlight trickled onto them, John rested his cheek against it and his hands clutched at Sherlock's side in a silent,"Mine."

"All yours," Sherlock's voice was struggling but he smiled and John felt like his viridian gaze would change colours and intermingle with the greys. He tugged at the satin scarf and it fell off as Sherlock's hands still stood where they were.

John gently held them in his own and massaged the wrists, kissing the broad palms that smelled of chemicals and nicotine, he popped one of the delicate fingers in his mouth as his own found their way to Sherlock's entrance, none meeting any resistance whatsoever. He could do this forever, the feeling of Sherlock's fingers inside his mouth as John swirled his tongue around it and John's finger inside Sherlock, all this was gratifying. Sherlock stretched around him as he inserted another finger as they effortlessly roamed around as John basked in the familiarity of Sherlock's body, in Sherlock's ring of muscles around his fingers, in everything Sherlock. _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,_ the name thumped with his heart.

"Say something to me," John murmured as he pushed a third finger inside Sherlock and Sherlock put a second one in John's mouth. Sherlock was panting now, his breath dragged across the room in a delicate rattle, it was poignant, the way in which his opened his mouth and invited John in and immeasurably obscene.

"I love to be the object of your scrutiny. I think I might turn blue like your gaze, maybe you'll swallow me and keep me inside you and never let me out, and I would never want to come out of the small place inside your chest with its reddened walls and sunlit orchards. I-" his voice faltered as John found the engorged bundle of nerves inside him and pressed it ever so gently between his fingers. Sherlock's hips moved in unconscious rhythm and his eyes closed in ecstasy, his mouth was opened and he looked utterly debauched, surrendered, defeated, won.

"I love you, John" was all he could manage as John removed his fingers and pulled him up in his arms, lining himself against the entrance as he slided in slowly. The friction was a little too much but John wanted nothing between them, his palms held Sherlock's waist as he entered him and both of them found the right angle. Sherlock burned and he loved the feeling of John inside him, it was like finally finding a lost piece of a puzzle that completed a problem, like pulling apart the threads of a fabric and then putting them back together.

"Oh god, John." Sherlock clawed at John's shoulder with one hand while his other found his own erection and he pumped it, both urgent and languid at the same time. "I don't want this to end, ever," he whispered nothings in John's shoulder as John continued to plunge into him and crash both of them every time he hit his prostate and Sherlock sank his teeth in his shoulders and moaned loudly enough to send shivers of want down John's body.

Sherlock came all over John's stomach and John felt the warmth spread to the rest of him, he felt the muscles clench wonderfully around him as he drilled into Sherlock with his head thrown back. He came seconds later and they both rocked against each other, riding the aftermath of the orgasm as Sherlock clung onto John, his curly hair wild and his voice wilder.

After a while, John gently lowered Sherlock on the bed and flopped beside him, their intermingled smells stewing in the air and the sound of their content sighs very alive in the walls. John turned at his side and Sherlock had his eyes closed, looking calm and peaceful. At time like these, he was just Sherlock, nothing else; not a genius, not a sociopath, simply Sherlock. John's Sherlock. John let his thumb sweep across the strong and delicate jaw as Sherlock smiled. John traced his lips and cupped his cheek & Sherlock turned around and locked their mouths together. His mouth was warm and John savoured the taste of tea and himself there.

When they broke apart, John continued to shower kisses on his face, his eyes and his forehead, his kissed the side of his mouth and buried himself under Sherlock's ear where a curly tuft of hair tickled his nose. "Don't ever leave me again," he whispered and Sherlock's arms drew protectively around his small form and hid him in his embrace as his hands stroked John's naked back, the embrace comforting him as much as his lover.

_I am changing every second of my life, the breath that leaves me is tangible, it is palpable life, it is me. Once, I am this warm cottage house with smoke wafting out of its bricked chimney, I'm the smell of baked potatoes and roast. I am also a steam engine, raring to go with words on my lips and songs in my hair, pumped by adrenaline and charred pieces of wood. And then there are days when I'm nothing but a small glowing light hovering in mid air at the end of a darkened alley, barely settled in a mouth and sucked inside, more essential than the air itself; sometimes, I just find myself trying to travel as high as I can, expended from the lungs like the will o'the wisp, clutching at stars for dear life. And then, I see you and everything falls into order, I see me, I see us. Happy. And sadness dissolves away from my bones._ The unsaid words washed over John's back, from Sherlock's gentle touches, his kiss on his temple.

"Never again will I leave you," he whispered back and kissed the top of John's head, pulling his closer and wrapping his limbs around him tightly. The sun lost the battle and went away after a while but the rains continued to scream at the city, John and Sherlock inhaled each other as London remained unfazed.


End file.
